


Naming of Parts

by LateStarter58



Series: The Companions [10]
Category: Crimson Peak (2015), Thomas Sharpe - Fandom, War Horse (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, F/M, Robot Feels, Robot/Human Relationships, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 16:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16791001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: “They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easyIf you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,And the breech, the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,Which in our case we have not got; and the almond blossomSilent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,For today we have the naming of parts. “Naming of Parts, from Lessons of the War by Henry Reed“She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes;Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.”She Walks in Beauty, by Lord Byron





	Naming of Parts

**Author's Note:**

> On OB4, there is more than one way for a woman to meet her mate...

He had rarely seen such a crowd on the station. It was good-natured, but nonetheless, it was quite a crush. Tall, handsome, calm, James Nicholls worked his way patiently through the throng, stepping this way then that. Politely apologising when women or girls stood on his toes or barged into him in the narrow space, barely wide enough for two adults to pass, between the rows of tables. This monthly ‘flea market’ - more reminiscent of a village jumble sale to him - was special. Because it was here, just a few months ago, although it seemed longer, that he had met her. He came, even now, simply to enjoy the atmosphere. There were familiar faces in the crowd: the occasional former client; others who, like him, came regularly to browse the heaps of bits and bobs, some idly, some clearly on a mission; the stall-holders, both the makers of crafts and trinkets and his favourites, those determined gatherers-up of other’s unconsidered trifles, of discarded items, of broken things. Some had untidy heaps of metal and plastic; others had taken the time to display their goods in neat categorised rows like museum cabinets. These traders sold on what they had bought, scavenged or found, to the many craftspeople who populated the commercial units on this same concourse or shared this market, or to hobbyists, to engineers and enthusiasts. Like his friends Adam and Sir Thomas. Like her.

He reached the end of the row and, finding a corner of tranquillity, he turned and paused, leaning his long frame on the grey wall. Amused and entertained, he watched the trading and haggling from this vantage point. One stall-holder looked aghast at a potential customer, no doubt outraged by an insulting offer; another called after a woman as she walked off, presumably having decided the prices were too rich for her blood. He thought wistfully how much she would enjoy this, too, but today he was alone, if only for a few hours.

She was at work, on an ‘early’. Jim accepted that her job, with its alternating shift-patterns and frequent weekend working, meant some disjunction with his more regular office hours. But when she was not around at weekends he would often seek out a place like this, to be with others. He tried to recall if he ever felt lonely before, when not at his old work. Perhaps not. He had usually spent his rest days with his friends. And cultivating friendships was - _is_ \- a good way to pass the time. That, and painting and drawing. It was a combination of the two that had brought him to this market, just five months before.

______________________________________

A voice - unfamiliar in that it was male - snapped the short grey-haired stall-holder out of her daydreaming. “I imagine you must think this a delicious irony.”

“Must I?” The woman eyed him curiously. He was the first _Companion_ that Ricky had seen up close. He was unnervingly human in appearance, with dark waves of shiny hair, one of which flopped over his high forehead. His eyes crinkled as he smiled, something which transformed his pale stern face completely.

“That I,” he touched his fingertips to his own chest, “should be searching for components with which to fashion an _automaton_.”

“Not really.” She kept her gaze on his handsome face, but her peripheral vision scanned his clothing. Even ‘off-duty’, he dressed as a man of the 19th century. High-waisted trousers, a loose shirt, fitted waistcoat and long frock coat. He looked as if he had just walked out of a novel by Dickens or Trollope. “Someone told me you like to make clockwork toys, so I thought you’d probably turn up here eventually.”

‘Here’ was the shabbier, less fashionable end of the Main Concourse of Orbital Base 4. Patricia ( _Ricky to her friends_ ) Maguire was one of the handful of traders who travelled from colony to colony, specialising in last-ditch recycling - scraps of fabric, old and worn out clothing, broken and eroded components and shards of metal, carbon fibre and plastic. Anything the bigger operations didn’t want and that could be rescued from the melting-pot or furnace. Ricky’s tables, strewn with nuts, bolts, rivets, small plastic components and malfunctioning tech represented a veritable treasure-trove for Sir Thomas Sharpe. He needed _other people’s junk_ , and that was the name of her little enterprise.

The Baronet Sharpe was not Ricky’s only potential customer this Saturday morning. Many other magpies were mooching around her stall and some were bent over sifting through the offerings laid out. Among them was his good friend and fellow _Companion_ , Captain James Nicholls, who had accompanied Sir Thomas on his shopping expedition. With reddish hair but as fair-skinned as his compatriot (and, not surprisingly since the same actor was their shared template, disconcertingly alike facially), he, too, was on the prowl for parts. But in his case, he needed plastic, and metal pins and struts in order to make frames for the small artworks he produced. He liked to give them as gifts occasionally, and a good frame completed a picture.

Jim spotted a shape that looked promising, a red strip protruding from a pile, but as he reached for it someone leaned forward from the press of humanity beside him and partially blocked his path. Clad in oil-stained and generally dirty fabric, an arm with an equally grubby hand at the end of it was heading, it seemed, for the exact same item. Determined to get to it, he pressed on and he and the owner of the hand found themselves holding opposite ends of a narrow strip of plastic.

He laughed awkwardly. “Oh, er, sorry, but-” James’ accustomed courtesy made him hesitate and almost release the thing, but no, this was a good match to something he had back in his quarters and he really - _really_ \- wanted it.

“I saw it first.”

Her voice made his heart beat faster. Jim’s eyes moved rapidly to take her in: she was short, perhaps a foot less in height than he. But he could see she was muscular, and from the top of work-worn, filthy overalls emerged a head of exquisite beauty. Chocolate brown skin that shone in the light, large round eyes and wiry black hair that was plaited and twisted into an intricate pattern against the scalp, with beads and ribbons woven into the design.

“I don’t believe so, madam.”

She laughed, revealing even white teeth. He couldn't seem to stop staring at her mouth. “ _Madam_?”

“Um...Miss...er...well, I’m sorry-”

“Look,” she spoke more quietly as she turned to look at him properly, “I assume you’re one of those, um…”

James straightened up and nodded, smiling faintly. “I am a _Companion,_ if that is what you mean,yes.”

The woman gave him an unabashed once-over, her gaze lingering on his long legs, and at the top in particular, so that when she again met his eyes both were blushing.

“I say, Nicholls, what’s what? Are you in dispute with this charming young lady?” Sir Thomas’ voice, somewhat deeper and more booming than James’ clipped RP broke the tension as he worked his way closer to them. Captain Nicholls laughed and shook his head.

“No, not at all. Please,” he released his end of the strip, “take it. I’m sure I’ll find something else that will pass muster.”

The woman grinned and thanked him. She paid Ricky and melted into the crowd. James watched her back until he could no longer pick her out among the weekend masses.

_________________________________________________________

A month later, as he entered _Companionship_ ready for work, Ruby the receptionist handed him a package. Her only response to his raised eyebrows was to smile knowingly and twirl around on her heel, walking away, back to her place behind the desk.

Once in his room - decorated in simple but tasteful Edwardian Arts and Crafts style, with a few examples of his own work adorning the faux wood-panelled walls - he opened the parcel. It contained an uncannily similar piece of red plastic to the one he had conceded to his lovely rival a few weeks before. In fact, he thought as he examined it, turning it in his long elegant fingers, it was better: longer by at least 50% and thicker, more robust. Putting it down on the applewood bureau, he picked up the note that was inside the package with it.

**_Found this this morning, thought you might need it, if you’re still looking._**

**_F N’Cube_ **

James stood, his fingertips rubbing the edge of the small card as he searched electronically through the colony records. There were two _F N’Cubes_ listed. One - _Fiona_ \- was 62 years old; the other, Funeka, was a 30-year-old team leader in _Propulsion Engineering_. He grunted with satisfaction.

He thought of the sketch he’d done, now propped on the shelf of his private quarters. Her profile, her smile, the paisley-pattern of her hair. The glossy ebony of her cheek...

A tingle at his temple reminded him he had a date commencing in five minutes, so he re-wrapped the strip carefully and placed the card with it, putting both together out of sight in a drawer. Pulling himself up to his full six feet plus, he brought up the information he had about his client and readied himself.

____________________________________________________________

“Coming for a drink later, Funie? We’re all meeting up at Falstaff’s about nine-ish.”

“Nah. I’ve got a ton of stuff to catch up on at home, plus I have a spin class in a few.”

“Jeez!” The woman walking beside her rolled her pale blue eyes. “Don’t you get enough exercise at work? Some days I can hardly put one foot in front of the other by the end of our shift.”

“Ah, but Tasha, that is why I make an effort to keep fit. So I don’t feel like that.” She grinned at her taller, heavier colleague. “You should try it.”

“What, with two girls and a wife who can cook like mine at home? Not happening, babes. See yer!” A cheery wave and she was off, across the Engineering Section lobby towards the bank of lifts. Funeka watched her ample bottom wobble in her overalls as she moved away. Tasha always made her think of those Soviet-era posters of Russian woman workers: all Slavic wholesomeness and strength. She chuckled to herself as she walked over to the panel and signed off her team for the shift. They had completed the final stage of the overhaul of the station core engines so she could relax for the next week. No work, no worries… except…

Her fingers went to her right pocket, to the hard plastic object she had removed before starting work. It was a ring she had designed and made from the scrap she had found that day on Ricky’s stall. The strip he had wanted too. Every time she wore it she thought of him.

She thought of him a lot more often than that, in truth. Not just when she put that particular piece of jewellery on, but when she woke, when she was eating, when her room-mate was talking, when she was plaiting her hair, when she was at work, when she lay down in bed…

Having completed her bureaucratic tasks, she gathered her gym gear from her locker and headed for _Alfredo’s Fitness_ in Verdi module. She walked briskly, bounced on her toes in the lift, set off again at a fast pace when the doors slid open. She felt the fizz of too much unresolved energy bubbling inside her. With difficulty, she tore her thoughts away from the geometric shape those freckles on his neck made...

_Exercise, that was the answer. No way was she going to use that place. No way. They were robots, for fuck’s sake. To pay for it, with a robot? No way. Even if he seemed…_

Turning away from the reception desk at the gym with her key and towel, she saw him. Through the glass, in the weights room. RIGHT THERE. Even if she had managed to forget him for a bit, now _there he was_ , it seemed, large as - apparent - life, lifting weights. _In HER gym._ She froze, transfixed. Sweat ran in trails down his neck, past that triangle that had haunted her, pooling in the notch of his sternum. So lifelike... The muscles under his tight t shirt... His face was serious, his eyes almost closed; he was focussed on what he was doing. She was drawn to the line of his mouth, the way his eyebrows jerked, _just a little,_ in rhythm with his arms; to the shape of his legs as he turned away to put down the dumbbell and wipe his face.

“Yes,” the receptionist’s voice broke through her haze, “He just started coming here with the Chief. Third time this week.” She nodded towards the woman beside James. It was Mary McCall, _OB4_ Head of Security. “Nice change of scenery.” The woman behind her chuckled softly as Funeka shook her head to clear it and hurried to the changing room.

An hour later, James was heading out with Mary. Both were pleasantly tired and warm, faces glowing pink in the aftermath of the workout. “I never would have pegged you for a bodybuilder, Jimbo, but you’re a natural.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I like to keep in trim, you know. And it’s a healthy pastime. Makes up for all the sitting around, scribbling.”

“I’ve seen your work. It’s stunning. Hardly _scribbling_.”

He shrugged and looked down, mildly embarrassed. Mary chuckled. She liked the sweetness of some of the _Hiddleston-Companions,_ even if she went for the slightly more forceful type when she wanted a date. She admired James as a person; he was upright, honest and brave and his artwork was beautiful. The horses he drew were lovely, and he had knack for portraiture. She had almost reached the exit when she realised he was not beside her anymore. She turned and saw he had stopped a few feet behind her and was staring through the window of the spin studio. His eyes seemed to be on a particularly stunning woman she recognised as one of the engineers.

“James?”

Mary’s voice was quiet but he jumped, laughed awkwardly and strode rapidly to catch her up.

____________________________________________________________

A soft tap on the door made Adam look up from the manuscript paper. “Yes, Jim?”

James stepped in, his face apologetic. “Oh, I say, I’m most awfully sorry. I did not intend to interrupt you in mid flow, old chap.”

Adam rolled his eyes. _Nicholls is so bloody polite. And SO BLOODY ENGLISH…_ He shook his shaggy head. “It’s fine. I was just looking at this violin part, trying to work out why it isn’t quite right.” He looked at his visitor, who filled the doorway to Adam’s small private quarters. “What can I do for you?”

James glanced at the cot questioningly. Adam nodded and scooched over to allow him room to sit down. “You know a thing or two about poetry, Adam?”

“I spent some time with the odd poet, yeah. Why do you ask?”

James reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out the small sketch of Funeka. He passed it into Adam’s cool grasp. “I’d like to find the right poem, to accompany this.” He paused, watching his friend’s reaction. “As a gift.”

Adam smiled a little. “It’s lovely. And a good likeness, if I know you.” He turned and looked James in the eye. Their faces, so alike and yet so different, were inches apart. “Have you fallen for this dark beauty, Jim?” He handed the drawing back.

The other man shrugged noncommittally as he carefully stowed it away again.

“You _have_! A client, I assume-”

“No, actually…”

“Interesting.” Adam stood up and walked over to the small shelf where he kept the few books he rotated every so often from the collection in his rooms in _Companionship._ He picked one up, opened it, leafing through the pages, occasionally pausing then moving on until he seemed to have found something that satisfied him. He passed the open volume to James. “I think this might be what you’re looking for. George finished it when I was sleeping on his floor.”

James looked down at the page. His lightning-fast eyes scanned the words. _She walks in beauty, like the night ...And all that’s best of dark and bright… the nameless grace...every raven tress… And on that cheek_... _So soft… the tints that glow…_ He smiled, and the red flush of his cheek darkened a shade. “Thank you, Adam. This is perfect.” He began to fix the image in his memory for later use, but Adam closed the book and pressed it harder into his hand.

“Keep it for the moment.” His eyes softened and the hint of smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You might need it again.”

Back in his own room, with his inherent dexterity and faultlessness, James copied out Byron’s words in neat copperplate, onto the back of the sketch. Once he was satisfied with his efforts, he placed the drawing in the frame he had made for it, then wrapped and tied it with a small piece of red ribbon he had once found on a fabric stall. He had a plan - he would leave the gift in the hands of the receptionist at _Alfredo’s._ The woman seemed to like him, and she also had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the clientele there; she would know Funeka. And she was trustworthy; Mary had told him so.

_______________________________________________

Funeka sighed and looked around, as if she might find someone or something to resolve her confusion lurking around a corner in Federico’s. Her tablet was unhelpful; it seemed that all dates with the _Companions_ were booked through the normal system, and the charge automatically made on the client’s account in advance. There was nothing about scheduling their time, or paying for it, in any other way. But here she was, waiting for him. He had courted her, that was clear... _was he touting for business?_ And now she had arranged to meet him. _Her_ decision, admittedly, but surely there had to be some kind of transaction involved?

She twiddled her spoon between her fingers, feeling the cool steel against her skin. Federico’s had topped her list for this rendezvous, because being less popular it never got too busy, and if you sat at one of the cosy tables they gave you a proper cup and saucer. She liked that, liked the traditional old-fashionedness of it. And it seemed to match him. She had done her research. All the _Companions_ had their back stories, and his was brief but tragic. Such a waste. So typical of the days when men were in charge… That said, Captain James Nicholls was an example of all that was good about those times, and about the junior officer class that was so devastated by that long-ago conflict: he epitomised courage, courtesy and selfless loyalty.

Despite her own qualms, Funeka had a few friends who had patronised _Companionship,_ including her roommate Kiko. All that she had heard was positive. There was no evidence that they needed to drum up customers, quite the reverse. She was aware that there was a three-week wait to see certain of them… When she had told the tale of her encounter at the flea market, someone (one of her team, she forgot exactly who) had said that she had heard James was dating that woman, _you know, that librarian with the three carrot-topped cherubs…_ Had he just sent her the amazing picture because she sent him that piece of polyurethane? Perhaps… No… there had to be more to it than that.

She knew he had come in, even without looking up. There was a discernible shift in the atmosphere, as if a male presence somehow altered the composition of the air in the room. Her eyes went to the doorway and absorbed the sight. He was dressed in his military garb, more or less. His hair was neatly combed, his cheeks rosy as if freshly scrubbed.

He was beautiful.

James had chosen to put on what he thought of as his everyday uniform: the khaki jacket, tie, shirt and jodhpurs of the 2nd Life Guards. No hat - that would have been excessive indoors - and just the brown belt and boots. He had no need for pistol or sabre here. He still found it hard to know how to dress on _OB4_. At his work, it didn’t seem to matter too much. He might wear mufti, or his dress blues, or nothing at all; clients seemed to appreciate him whatever. But this was more like the pleasant times he had spent with Camilla and her daughters… except it wasn’t at all. This felt much more important. Tenser, more like his insides had the morning of _The Charge_.

She waved and he spotted her and strode purposefully through the tables. He smiled in greeting. “Good afternoon. May I get you another coffee?”

She shook her head, getting up. “No, no. I asked _you_ , remember. What would you like?”

“Um, tea, please. Earl Grey if they have it.”

“Anything to...er, do you eat? I’m sorry, I am...I never...”

James touched her hand lightly, calming her fluttering and stilling the flow of confusion. “We do eat, yes, but thank you, I’m fine for now, Ms N’Cube.”

She hurried over to the counter and ordered his tea, as well as another Americano for herself. The barista smiled and said she’d bring them over. Swallowing hard, Funeka returned to see James stand up as she approached. He smiled again and she felt her cheeks warming. His eyes were so clear, so warm but yet they seemed to see into her soul.

_He’s a machine, Funie_

_Maybe, but still_

She sat quickly, arranging herself in the tub chair and fussing with her cup and saucer to buy time, watching out of the corner of her eye as he took his seat once more. Now he was there she felt foolish. _Why had she invited him? Whatever was she thinking? Oh yes_

“I wanted to thank you for the lovely drawing you sent me. It was very generous of you.”

“Not at all. You had given me what I needed to make the frame.” He paused. “Did you like the portrait? I hope you didn't think it was presumptuous of me.” He realised he was almost holding his breath.

“Presumptuous?”

“To make a likeness of you. Without permission.”

“Oh.”

He looked at his hands. “I am sorry if I have offended in any way. I should-”

“Not at all! I asked you here to thank you, as I already said!” _He’s so polite. He seems nervous._ “I’m not sure how this works. Is this first one free, or-”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, you see, the thing is, I’ve never been to _Companionship_ and I wasn’t sure how-”

James stood up abruptly, his heart pounding and tears close to falling. His face was ashen with mortification, save for two red blotches. “I’m very sorry, Ms N’Cube. There seems to have been some misunderstanding between us. I am here in my own time. There was never any _professional_ arrangement as far as I was concerned. Please, forgive my mistake.” The barista had just reached them, holding a small tray with Funeka’s coffee, as well as a teapot, cup and saucer and milk. James gracefully sidestepped her and swept out onto the crowded concourse. Funeka mumbled thanks, then swiftly gathered up her belongings and followed him out, hoping she could catch him up but not truly believing it was possible.

_______________________________________________

It was late afternoon, and as befitted the waning of the year, the light was fading in the park when she got there. It hadn't been difficult to follow him, he was so tall, and he walked - marched, you might say - straight there, across the Main Concourse. Now she could see his back as he disappeared around the edge of the bamboo plantation. He had slowed a little, so that she no longer needed to run to keep him in sight. Grateful for her spin class and the cardio fitness she had developed, Funeka was gaining on him at last.

She turned the corner to find him in the middle of the path, facing her. “Why are you following me, Ms N’Cube?” His face was serious. Not angry, not sad. Almost expressionless.

“I have offended you. That was never my intention.”

He took in a deep breath, as if steadying himself. “Not at all. The fault was entirely mine. I misinterpreted your invitation.”

“You did not.”

“But you said-”

“Because I am an idiot.” He shook his head, but his eyes never left her face. “Because I made an assumption that was completely wrong and I’m sorry…” She looked at him afresh. His face had changed. No longer blank, nor even appearing to be those of a man, his features were more like those of a boy: hopeful. “You sent me that picture. I thought you liked me.”

James nodded. His voice was soft, barely audible. “I do.”

“But then, when I thought about it some more, I started to think that if you were a _Companion,_ then you must _…_ and somebody told me you might be dating someone, so-”

“I am not.”

“OK.”

He took a step towards her. She stayed where she was, having to look up now to see into his face. He was less than an arm’s length away. “I wrote something on the back of the sketch.”

“Did you?”

“It was stupid of me. Of course you would not notice it. I should not have framed it, but you gave me that plastic, and it-”

“What did you write?”

Her eyes were bright as she gazed at him. He noted how her long lashes curled up, and how her skin seemed to be made of the finest satin in the soft light of dusk. How her breasts moved with her breaths - she was still panting slightly from the chase. “It was a poem. By Byron.”

“Tell me?”

He took a deep breath. “Not here.” He stretched out an elegant hand and watched as her much smaller, much darker one was swallowed up by it. He led her along a narrow path to the clearing at the centre of the bamboo. It was a favourite spot of his to sit and read. The dense vegetation blocked out noise and made a shield from prying eyes, and the soft creaking and rustling of the canes and leaves made him feel as if he were back on Earth, in his beloved Dorset. Two neat benches had been placed there and they sat down, close together.

Taking both of Funeka’s hands in his, he recited the poem to her from memory. She watched him speak, her eyes never leaving his face, her heart beating faster and faster as his voice reverberated through her being. When he stopped speaking she sighed and squeezed his hands.

“I did not write those lovely words, Funeka, nor even did I find them myself. But when my friend opened the page and I read them, I knew they befitted you, almost as if Lord Byron had seen you himself.”

Not knowing what to say in response, she simply leaned over and kissed him.

_________________________________________________

“What does it mean, your name? If it _has_ a meaning, that is.”

She turned and lifted her head so she could see his eyes in the half-light of his room. The movement made the pressure of her leg on his increase minutely, but it was enough to make them both shiver with pleasure.

“My name? It’s Xhosa.” He smiled at the unfamiliar, exotic click as she said the word. “Mum had trouble getting pregnant at first. It became a mission for her, to have me. To have a family. And once she sets her heart on something, well…” He raised an eyebrow, and she laughed. _He’ll see… “_ So she chose ‘Funeka’ because it means ‘one who is needed’.”

“And so you are.” James inclined his head so his lips could reach her forehead. He was on his back on his narrow cot, and she was lying beside but mostly on him, her free arm around his waist. It should have felt cramped, but it did not, not for either of them. Instead it felt right, comfortable; the only place to be.

Funeka sighed and stretched her back. James moaned as her body moved against him, and she shuffled up until her lips met his. She felt him smile. “Again?” She nodded and kissed him harder.

The first time had been passionate but rushed. Something had passed between them in the bamboo grove. As soon as they kissed it had been a done deal, and there was no time to waste, no delay that could be tolerated. James had taken her hand and hurried them both here. Funeka was not very experienced in sex, and not at all with a man, but that did not impede matters; James’ clothes were removed faster than her own. No time for anxiety, doubts, just overwhelming need.

The second time had been slower, but still urgent, as she opened for him and he covered her, his sighs and hers, their breath mixing and filling the tiny room with heat and love.

But now she could look, touch, explore at a more leisurely pace. She allowed her tongue to linger on the freckles that had addled her thoughts. She smiled to herself as his eyelids fluttered shut when her hands teased and tangled in the hair below his navel. She could detect the beat of his heart beneath his ribs, and how it speeded when she shifted so she was straddling his hips. Her fingertips travelled to his nipples, hard and pink and when she bent to discover how they felt on her lips, he gasped.

James was hard again. She could feel the heat of it, of him against her backside. He was delicious, so big and satisfying, because he knew what to do with his size, how to treat her, but that was not what she needed again. She slid downwards, watching his eyes widen as her mouth reached his tip and she took it in.

“Darling, you don’t-”

She released him for a moment, her hand still stroking as he gulped and panted. “Do you like this?”

He nodded. “Yes, but I know you ha-”

“Then shhhh.” Once more her lips enclosed him and his fingertips caressed the ridges and valleys of her hair as he allowed the pleasure to sweep up, over, through him. Her tongue, her mouth, they were so hot, so warm, so _her._ Somewhere in the deep recesses of his memory, he located a question Miss Julie had asked him once, long ago in a debrief interview. He had never quite understood it until today.

_How did you feel, when you came?_

Never like this. Never as if the world could stop and all would be well because I have had this moment, this time with _The One Whom I Needed._

___________________________________________

A tingle at his temple made James return to the here and now from his trip down memory lane.

**_Almost done. See you at Fed’s?_ **

**_I’ll be there, my darling_ **

Straightening up, he pushed off the wall where he had been lounging and worked his way patiently through the multitude so that he could walk to the other extreme of the concourse and meet her at their special place. He was nearing the end of the market, just steps away from the blessed relief of open space when something red caught his eye. There, on a table at the end of a row, in a heap of metal shards and bent or splintered fragments, was the twin of that first scrap of plastic. _Their piece._ The one that they had both wanted.

James stopped, turned and stepped over, leaning forward for a closer look. He picked it up.

“I saw it first!”

An arm slipped around his waist, the other hand caught his wrist and James felt a great tide of love rush through him like a tsunami. He kissed the top of her head as she settled against his side, her wiry thatch tickling his nose.

“I don’t _think_ so, not this time, _Madam._ ”


End file.
